Read Online Means Of Evil And Other Stories by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online
Authors: Ruth Rendell
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inferring and I didn't ask. But you can rest assured Mrs. Betts had no motive for killing her mother. Leaving sentiment apart, it was all the same to her whether her mother was alive or dead. The Bettses would still have got the house and after her death Mrs. Wrangton's capital. The next time I saw her she was unconscious, she was dying. She did die, at seven-thirty, on June 2nd."
Both Wexford's parents had died before he was forty. His wife's mother had been dead twenty years, her father fifteen. None of these people had been beyond their seventies, so therefore Wexford had no personal experience of the geriatric problem. It seemed to him that for a woman like Mrs. Wrangton, to end one's days in a nursing home with companionship and good nursing and in pleasant surroundings was not so bad a fate. And an obvious blessing to the daughter and son-in-law whose affection for a parent might be renewed when they only encountered her for an hour or so a week. No, Doreen Betts and her husband had no motive for helping Mrs. Wrangton out of this world, for by retiring to Summerland she wouldn't even make inroads into that three or four thousand pounds of capital. Her pension and her annuity would cover the fees. Wexford wondered what those fees would be, and remembered vaguely from a few years back hearing a figure of twenty pounds a week mentioned in a similar connection. Somebody's old aunt, some friend of his wife's. You'd have to allow for inflation, of course, but surely it would cost no more than thirty pounds a week now. With the Retirement Pension at eighteen pounds and the annuity worth, say, another twenty, Mrs. Wrangton could amply have afforded Summerland.
But she had died first—of natural causes. It no longer mattered that she and Harry Betts hadn't been on speaking terms, that no one had fetched Elsie Parrish, that Dr. Moss had been called out to visit a healthy woman, that Mrs. Betts had given orders to stop the painting. There was no motive. Eventually the tongues would cease to wag, Mrs. Wrangton's will would be proved, and the Bettses settle down to enjoy the rest of their lives in their newly decorated home.
Wexford put it out of his head, apart from wondering whether he should visit Castle Road and drop a word of warning to the gossips. Immediately he saw how impossible this would be. The slander would be denied, and besides he hardly saw his function as extending so far. No, let it die a natural death—as Mrs. Wrangton had.
On Monday morning he was having breakfast, his wife reading a letter just come from her sister in Wales.
"Frances says Bill's mother has got to go into a nursing home at last." Bill was Wexford's brother-in-law. "It's either that or Fran having her, which really isn't on."
Wexford, from behind his newspaper, made noises indicative of sympathy with and support for Frances. He was reading a verbatim report of the trial of some bank robbers.
"Ninety pounds a week," said Dora.
"What did you say?"
"I was talking to myself, dear. You read your paper."
"Did you say ninety pounds a week?"
"That's right. For the nursing home. I shouldn't think Bill and Fran could stand that for long. It's getting on for five thousand a year."
"But . . ." Wexford almost stammered, ". . . I thought a couple of years ago you said it was twenty a week for what's-her-name, Rosemary's aunt, wherever they put her?"
"Darling," said Dora gently, "first of all, that wasn't a couple of years ago, it was at least twelve years ago. And secondly, haven't you heard of the rising cost of living?"
An hour later he was in the matron's office at Summerland, having made no attempt to disguise who he was, but presenting himself as there to enquire about a prospective home for an aged relative of his wife's. Aunt Lilian. Such a woman had actually existed, perhaps still did exist in the remote Westmorland village from which the Wexfords had last heard of her in a letter
Both Wexford's parents had died before he was forty. His wife's mother had been dead twenty years, her father fifteen. None of these people had been beyond their seventies, so therefore Wexford had no personal experience of the geriatric problem. It seemed to him that for a woman like Mrs. Wrangton, to end one's days in a nursing home with companionship and good nursing and in pleasant surroundings was not so bad a fate. And an obvious blessing to the daughter and son-in-law whose affection for a parent might be renewed when they only encountered her for an hour or so a week. No, Doreen Betts and her husband had no motive for helping Mrs. Wrangton out of this world, for by retiring to Summerland she wouldn't even make inroads into that three or four thousand pounds of capital. Her pension and her annuity would cover the fees. Wexford wondered what those fees would be, and remembered vaguely from a few years back hearing a figure of twenty pounds a week mentioned in a similar connection. Somebody's old aunt, some friend of his wife's. You'd have to allow for inflation, of course, but surely it would cost no more than thirty pounds a week now. With the Retirement Pension at eighteen pounds and the annuity worth, say, another twenty, Mrs. Wrangton could amply have afforded Summerland.
But she had died first—of natural causes. It no longer mattered that she and Harry Betts hadn't been on speaking terms, that no one had fetched Elsie Parrish, that Dr. Moss had been called out to visit a healthy woman, that Mrs. Betts had given orders to stop the painting. There was no motive. Eventually the tongues would cease to wag, Mrs. Wrangton's will would be proved, and the Bettses settle down to enjoy the rest of their lives in their newly decorated home.
Wexford put it out of his head, apart from wondering whether he should visit Castle Road and drop a word of warning to the gossips. Immediately he saw how impossible this would be. The slander would be denied, and besides he hardly saw his function as extending so far. No, let it die a natural death—as Mrs. Wrangton had.
On Monday morning he was having breakfast, his wife reading a letter just come from her sister in Wales.
"Frances says Bill's mother has got to go into a nursing home at last." Bill was Wexford's brother-in-law. "It's either that or Fran having her, which really isn't on."
Wexford, from behind his newspaper, made noises indicative of sympathy with and support for Frances. He was reading a verbatim report of the trial of some bank robbers.
"Ninety pounds a week," said Dora.
"What did you say?"
"I was talking to myself, dear. You read your paper."
"Did you say ninety pounds a week?"
"That's right. For the nursing home. I shouldn't think Bill and Fran could stand that for long. It's getting on for five thousand a year."
"But . . ." Wexford almost stammered, ". . . I thought a couple of years ago you said it was twenty a week for what's-her-name, Rosemary's aunt, wherever they put her?"
"Darling," said Dora gently, "first of all, that wasn't a couple of years ago, it was at least twelve years ago. And secondly, haven't you heard of the rising cost of living?"
An hour later he was in the matron's office at Summerland, having made no attempt to disguise who he was, but presenting himself as there to enquire about a prospective home for an aged relative of his wife's. Aunt Lilian. Such a woman had actually existed, perhaps still did exist in the remote Westmorland village from which the Wexfords had last heard of her in a letter
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